


Chase the Shadows Away

by milverton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bitter Sherlock, Friends With Benefits, Jealous John, John Loves Sherlock, Joltolock, M/M, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/milverton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the wedding reception early, Sherlock decides to pay Major Sholto a visit in hospital.</p><p>Inspired by <a href="https://sherlockbbc-fic.dreamwidth.org/75973.html?thread=260368325#cmt260368325">this prompt:</a></p><p>"Sholto and Sherlock,  fwb, h/c, whump</p><p>Could someone write a story where Sherlock leaves the wedding in TSOT and decides to visit Sholto in the hospital instead instead of going to 221B to look at wedding paraphernalia and shoot up? The two end up enjoying the visit (well as much as they can under the circumstances) and bond over John amongst other things. They know that John isn't available, become friends with benefits. Sherlock still loves John but he thinks it's never going to happen so why not indulge the transport (also military kink ftw!)?  Maybe Sherlock doesn't end up in a drug den, but visits Sholto frequently?  Eventually, John finds out (maybe in a month or so) and is obscenely jealous.</p><p>Magnussen stuff doesn't interfere with the relationship. I don't care how it's dealt with to be honest. Just no fake relationship with Janine,  get rid of evil Mary, give me a Johnlock HEA, and don't screw over Sholto."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock pulls his coat closed as he steps out into the cool, nippy night and walks until jaunty music becomes a distant, faint bass.

He walks until he's far enough to pretend that the music's source stems from someone else's-- _anyone_ else's wedding reception. 

He reaches into his inner breast pocket, takes out his pack of B&H Golds, removes a cigarette, lights it, closes his lips around it, inhales, and slowly expels a miasma of smoke. He closes his eyes, lifts his chin; he can feel the tension in his body unspooling as the nicotine metabolises, insinuates itself into his bloodstream. 

He remains still, zen, blocks out all sound: the music, the seldom car.

Alone, again. This is familiar. How it was always meant to be.

But he was  _never_ meant to feel this way again, to feel so deeply for another person--he'd vowed, long ago, that he'd never allow it to happen again. Now, here he is, and it, the _feeling_ , has burrowed under his skin, pierced bone-deep. It's a part of him and can't simply be vowed away. Not this time.

He needs a distraction, needs it now--but his stash is back home at 221b, hours away. He could scope out Bristol for local dealers, he's become quite adept at identifying them on sight....

He opens his eyes. Across the way sits the austere Chesterfield Hospital, where Major Sholto had been brought after the fun--though, perhaps not for the Major--bout of melodrama earlier today.

Sherlock spends the next ten minutes smoking, considering his next move.

He throws the cigarette into the street, stamps it out, and bounds toward the hospital.

* * *

“Can I help you, sir?"

“Police,” Sherlock says, moving abruptly for the door.

The nurse side-steps so she’s bodily barricading Sherlock from the door. She's a small woman, but seems taller when she crosses her arms over her chest, defiant, and demands, “Can I see some identification?”

Sherlock’s  _really_  not in the mood to play the wheedling charmer; guess he’s playing the bad cop tonight.

“The man in this room, Major James Sholto, bestowed with the highest badge of honour that can be awarded to a member of the British forces, was a victim of an attempted murder not but two and a half hours ago. As you are well aware, he had a thin knife embedded deeply in his person without his knowledge and the man responsible for this insidious crime is still out there and could easily be using similar tactics to harm other unsuspecting people. We must gather all of the evidence we can  _now_  before he strikes again and you, right now, at this very moment, are impeding our investigation and possibly putting lives in danger. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for _that_ , now would you?”

The nurse, though visibly nettled, reluctantly allows him inside.

Sholto is sitting upright in his bed, staring blankly out into the middle distance. At Sherlock’s appearance, he looks over.

“Mr Holmes?” he says, sounding shocked.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks. He takes an empty chair, drags it bedside, and sits down.

Sholto blinks at him, nonplussed, but doesn’t ask any irritating questions about his presence or, rather, lack of presence at the wedding. The very last thing he wants to talk about is the wedding.

“Between John’s careful handiwork and the hospital’s, I’m on my way.”

Sherlock glances at where a medical bandage peeks out from Sholto’s lumbar, covering the area where the knife had been lodged, then his eyes skitter up Sholto's bare chest--Sholto's been back from Afghanistan for a year, but is clearly meticulous about maintaining a robust, soldier's build--which is covered with blond hair and a smattering of freckles, then up his arm, where a web of burn-scar tissue begins at his elbow, spirals up to his shoulder, curves up his neck, and tapers off at his forehead.

“I must thank you, Mr Holmes. For what you did,” Sholto says. Sherlock flicks his hand dismissively, leaning back in his chair.

They fall into companionable silence, Sholto looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock surreptitiously leering at Sholto's rather well-defined biceps.

"Well, are you going to tell me who did this to me or am I meant to guess?"

Sherlock looks up and flashes Sholto a mirthless smile. “Jonathan Small. He was brought into custody.”

“Small?” Sholto says hollowly, then closes his eyes, looking profoundly wounded. “Of course," he whispers. " _Small_.”

“Jonathan Small, brother of the late Peter Small, a soldier who was in your charge," Sherlock confirms. "He was the wedding photographer and was thus able to skulk about completely unnoticed. When you were setting up to pose for photographs, he pierced you with the knife.”

“Of course,” Sholto repeats numbly. “I deserved it. My god. Peter was such a good soldier. He was so young—“

“Major,  _please,"_ Sherlock snaps, irritated. "You mustn’t keep feeling sorry for yourself. That’s what happens in war. The enemy attacks. People die. I’ve read the reports—you did nothing wrong.”

“There is always something I could have done differently to save them,” Sholto intones despairingly.

“Perhaps that’s true, statistically.” Sholto inhales sharply, pained, so Sherlock quickly adds, “But no one could have predicted how the enemy would attack. What if they had been following your every move to begin with? An attack was probably inevitable. Say you tried a different tactic: what if it killed you too? Perhaps your men could have died under other circumstances during the war. No one will know for certain, and it's a waste of time to speculate."

“You're a terrible consoler, Mr Holmes,” Sholto says with a tinge of annoyance.

“Sherlock. And take it as you will. But wallowing in self-pity will get you nowhere.”

“I’d rather not talk about it anymore," Sholto says gravely. "I've made myself sick thinking about it. I’d just really rather not talk about  _me_  anymore. You were right, you know. When you said I wouldn’t do something like that to John. It was selfish of me to even think of it. Today was not about me; it was about John.”

“Mm, not just John anymore. John-and-Mary. Mr-and-Mrs Watson,” Sherlock says sardonically. “And co., of course."

Sholto looks confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Mary’s pregnant,” Sherlock says.

Sholto waits a beat. “Oh,” he says blandly.

At that, Sherlock smirks, genuinely amused for the first time in hours. “You sound positively thrilled.”

Sholto looks caught-out, and he gives Sherlock a tight smile, an unsuccessful attempt to redeem himself.  “No, I am. I'm sorry. It’s lovely. John must be very happy. Good for him. And Mary."

Sherlock snorts. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about such a thing?”  

“Why, indeed?” Sherlock asks, leaning in, eyes flitting searchingly over Sholto's face for any betrayal of an answer.

Sholto only offers a restrained, “I wish John nothing but happiness. I know he wanted a family.” 

Sherlock stares at Sholto for a moment, suddenly fascinated by him. “Why have I never heard of you before?” he asks, more a question posed to himself than to Sholto. “Why has John never mentioned you? He clearly cares for you and you, him. And John doesn’t care for many people. All of his 'friends'--and I use this word loosely--are people I know about. So why hasn’t he ever mentioned you?”

Sholto looks uncertain and pointedly does not look at Sherlock as he says, “John and I have been e-mailing back and forth for the past year, since I got back from Afghanistan. I’m not one for social phone calls or casual meetings—I find them very tedious. The last time I saw John was when you were…away, so I suppose I can understand why he hasn’t mentioned me to you. I was probably the last thing on his mind when you came back." He looks at Sherlock with a small smile. "I have heard quite a bit about you, though."

Sherlock blinks. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. He’s gone on and on about you at times." Sholto huffs out a laugh. "Nearly wrote a novella about you once.”

“You mean the blog, surely. John goes on and on about the cases in gruesomely florid detail.”

“No, no. Our e-mails. And he's said all sorts of things about you,” Sholto says cryptically.

"Such as?” Sherlock finds himself leaning forward, hanging raptly on Sholto's response.

Sholto regards him for a moment, then says, “Your hair in the moonlight, your twinkling eyes....” Sherlock scowls at him. Sholto chuckles. “All right, not quite that. Not quite.” Sholto gives Sherlock a slow once-over and adds, “Though, if it were that, I suppose I wouldn’t blame him. Look at you. I would write poetry too."

Sherlock's mouth drops open and he goes completely, utterly still.

Almost simultaneously, the door flies open and both Sherlock and Sholto whip their attentions toward the intrusion.

“ _Sir_ ,” the nurse hisses, glaring at Sherlock. “How much longer will this take? My patient needs rest.”

Sherlock pushes back in the chair with a loud scrape and jumps up, flattens down his coat lapels, and clears his throat. 

“Major," Sherlock says, but instead addresses the wall adjacent. "Please let me know if you think of anything further that may serve our case. Thank you for your time.” 

He rushes past the nurse and out of the room, hoping no one noticed his embarrassing fluster.

* * *

**_Two Weeks Later_ **

**It’s bloody gorgeous here. Look at how blue the water is [[Attached image](http://budgetsaresexy.com/images/grenada-water.jpg)]. –JW**

**Didn’t think I’d like this meal, but practically inhaled it** **[[Attached imaged](http://www.meatlovessalt.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Meat-Loves-Salt_Oil-Down_3.1.jpg)]. Still not really sure what it is. –JW**

**Mary says “Hi” and told me to add an “XOXO.” Should I be jealous? –JW**

**Local constabulary look bored. You'd hate it here. -JW**

**Here I am just about to swan-dive off the Seven Sisters Falls [Attached image]. -JW**

Sherlock doesn’t respond to any of John’s texts. Despite Sherlock's reticence, John keeps sending them. And Sherlock reads them all. 

As the days pass, Sherlock can't stop glancing over at his mobile, anticipating John's next message like an eager schoolboy. It's assuredly masochistic; every single text only reaffirms that John's having a wonderfully hateful Sex Holiday with his blushing bride.

At some point Sherlock decides he can't take it anymore, can't stand his own pitiful desperation, so he lets the battery on his mobile die and asks Mrs Hudson to hold his charger hostage and to not to give it back to him under any circumstances for the next three days, when John and Mary are meant to return. As a distraction, he whiles away the hours continuing writing a rather exciting monograph on Gm and Km typing. After two days, he's written fifty pages.

During a much-needed reprieve, he checks his e-mail. They've been piling up; he can't remember the last time he checked his inbox. Indeed, he finds a slew of boring cases, a few sycophantic fan mails, journalists asking for interviews, photographs of great knot from mummy and dad’s annual bird watching trip to Breydon Water, and a message from Major James Sholto.

Sherlock can't possibly have clicked and read the Major's message any faster.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I hope this e-mail finds you well. I’m feeling much better; Tessa’s been taking good care of me._

_I never got to thank you for coming to check up on me in hospital. I must admit I was surprised to see you, but I really appreciated the gesture. You’re kinder than John’s made you out to be._

_I admit I haven’t only e-mailed to thank you. I would also like to apologise. I fear I may have overstepped my bounds at the hospital. I'm not usually so saccharine--I blame the morphine._

_I'd like to overstep my bounds again._ **_I would like you to join me for dinner._ **

_I now see, as John mentioned in passing a few times, how striking a man you are. I wouldn’t mind looking at you a bit more. (Or perhaps a lot more)._

_You may not find me interesting--why should a man like you find me interesting? I may not be your first choice. But I can be good to you and I think we could be good for each other in these times._

_If you are amenable, I’d like us to meet next weekend. Please let me know if that works for you. If you’re opposed, I understand and you needn’t subject yourself to my attentions any longer._

_I do hope to hear from you._

_All best,_

_James Sholto_


	2. Chapter 2

Once Sherlock's read Sholto's e-mail, several thoughts zip through his mind.

_John thinks I’m striking?_

_This is refreshingly forward._

_John thinks I’m striking?_

Sherlock's not a stranger to receiving propositions, granted he's in a situation that is conducive to such things (that is, usually during a case when he's undercover and trying to solicit information). But Sholto's proposition at the hospital had been unexpected and Sherlock thought it a one-off, a declaration muddled by drugs and confused for gratitude.

Sherlock hadn't anticipated any pursuance. Nothing like _this_. And he doesn't do _this_ , whatever this is. Sherlock is far from interested in pursuing any kind of romantic entanglement--

But perhaps that isn't what Sholto's interested in either. 

Sherlock composes a succinct response:

_Major,_

_I appreciate your forthrightness._

_I accept your invitation. Where and when?_

_-_ _Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

Walking through Oxfordshire, a nearly two hour ride from central London, brings back memories of Sherlock's time at Cambridge. These aren't times he particularly wants to recall and, thankfully, all familiarity fades as he continues further into the town, breaches the quiet backwater area where Sholto's house is situated. Sherlock isn't surprised to find that Sholto lives alone (if one doesn't count his numerous personal employees) in a detached five-bedroom, four en-suite family home.

Sholto's wearing civilian garb for their little  _rendez-vous,_ a plain white button down and jeans, and his sparse blond hair is combed back, looks soft and freshly-showered. Sherlock decides he finds him to be quite handsome in or out of uniform. 

The dinner tableau is an impressive mezze of Lebanese food, prepared by Sholto’s personal cook. Sherlock eats everything placed in front of him without fuss. Conversation is somewhat stilted, probably because Sholto is not a man who likes to hear himself speak. But Sherlock doesn't mind. Why speak when there's nothing to say? Besides, Sherlock is an expert at finding ways to entertain himself, having spent all of his life deeply entrenched in his own mind. He looks around the dining room and catalogs as much new information about Sholto as he can (namely: received fat inheritance from a wealthy grandmother who died several years ago, obsessively exercises, likes Romantic art but, sadly, enjoys modern art just as well, owned a dog--German Shepherd?--who recently passed). 

"Shall we relocate to the sitting room?" Sholto suggests after their plates are cleared. He raises the half-empty bottle of 1998 Château Musar. "I'll bring the wine."

They move to the sitting room, sitting on opposite sides of Sholto's sleek leather sofa. The wine is delicious, and Sherlock, not usually one to indulge, is already on his third glass.

Sherlock swirls the liquid around in his glass, watches it settle. "Listen, Major--"

"You can call me James at this point, I think." James chugs back his wineglass until it's empty, places it down on the coffee table, turns bodily toward Sherlock and drapes an arm across the top of the sofa, looking attentive.

"James," Sherlock amends. "You should know I don't do..." Sherlock waves a hand between them vaguely. " _This_." 

"I don't follow."

"I don't do...'wining and dining.’"  He places the wine aside and grimaces at the thought of a faceless man trying to woo him with dull romantic truisms. "Dating.  _Relationships_." 

James laughs softly. "That wasn't exactly what I was aiming for." James moves down the sofa so that he and Sherlock are nearly touching thighs. 

He knew that this would be a part of what James wanted from him, but it's still generally foreign territory and Sherlock's out of his depths. He loathes being out of his depths.

"Why the dinner, then?" Sherlock asks, and his throat has gone dry. He swallows. "Why bother?"

"I like to think of myself as _somewhat_ of a gentleman," James says cheekily. Sherlock huffs out a laugh.

Slowly, James runs a hand up Sherlock's thigh and Sherlock closes his eyes, shivers. It’s been a very long time since he’s last been touched like this and he's quickly realising he’s been starved for it. James's hand creeps toward his groin, then stops.

"I'm sorry." His hand leaves Sherlock's thigh. "Is this not what you want too?"

Sherlock certainly doesn't want James. 

But maybe there's no harm in affording himself a distraction from a life wanting John. 

"I want you to do whatever you'd like to me," Sherlock intones.

James leans in and presses his lips against Sherlock's neck, then opens his mouth and sucks. Sherlock sighs languidly into it. James pulls away slightly, his large hand cups Sherlock's cheek, and he turns Sherlock's face so that their eyes can meet.

"You're stunning," James says, velvety, staring unabashedly at Sherlock. Sherlock looks away. "I hope you find me acceptable. I know, these days, I’m not much to look at. But it seems logical to me that we do this. It would be good for us both."

James dips his head to dot kisses down Sherlock's neck, then nips at his skin playfully. James pulls Sherlock's shirt collar out so he has better access to his collarbone, and kisses it, tongues at the dip between collarbone and shoulder.

"You're very sure of yourself," Sherlock says, nearly breathless.

"I'm not terribly unperceptive. As I said once before: we're very much alike, you and I," James says into Sherlock's skin. "And I think you need to forget."

Sherlock freezes, then pushes James away and gives him a hard look. "Forget what?"

James huffs out a laugh, notices Sherlock is dead serious, then considers him soberly. "I understand. You don't want to talk about it."

"Talk about what?" Sherlock snipes, his stomach dropping. "What's there to talk about?"

“I'll make you forget about him. Just for tonight," James says, low, then leans in to lick up Sherlock's neck. Sherlock gasps. 

James leans over and slides his hand down where Sherlock’s pelvis meets thigh, then boldly massages Sherlock’s groin.

"Oh," Sherlock gasps out, lifting his hips up for more contact with James's hand.

James picks up his head, and kisses Sherlock's oh-shaped mouth gently. Sherlock doesn't want gentle, so he presses back into the kiss harshly, desperate. With shaky hands, he reaches out for James’s button-down and begins to undo the buttons, then unzips his trousers, snakes his hand underneath the hem of his pants and encloses his hand over James’s cock, which swells in his hand.

“Oh, hell, it's been too long," James growls appreciatively. "But, please, I can wait a bit more. Stop."

Sherlock pulls his hand away immediately, and internally kicks himself. "I'm--"

"Sorry, no, please, I want to--do the same for you but it’d be a bit of a contortion for me. Sofa's a bad idea. Bedroom?”

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock agrees enthusiastically, jumping up and offering his hand. James takes it, huffing out a laugh, and allows himself to be led, holding onto his trousers so they don't fall down.

“You don’t know where my bedroom is."

“Will deduce it,” Sherlock says hurriedly. After trying just one door, he grits out, "Oh, for god's--tell me where it is! I can't think--I can't--"

"Right here," James says, a smile in his voice, leading Sherlock across the hall and into a spartan, sterile-looking bedroom. 

Sherlock immediately begins to undress James, helping him pull off his trousers, his shirt. Once stripped bare, James walks over to the other side of the bed and lies down carefully on his right side.

"I want to watch you," James says.

Sherlock obliges, strips down, then climbs into bed and mirrors James's position.

"You're more comfortable and functional with your left arm, despite being right-handed. You had to teach yourself how to use your left hand," Sherlock observes. He allows his gaze to travel down the front of James's body, from his broad, hirsute, well-built chest to his long, thin cock nestled in a mess of wiry hair.

"That's right," James says, eyelids hooded, reaching out to run his hand down from the curve of Sherlock's shoulder to his bicep, down his chest, fingers ghosting over a nipple. 

Sherlock shivers again, remains fixated on James's cock, asks distractedly, "And your back. Does it still hurt?"

"I'm fine," James says, not really answering the question. He reaches down and takes hold of Sherlock's cock, which had gained some interest in the proceedings, but James's quick and dirty ministrations coax it to full hardness. Sherlock falls onto his back and James chases him, throwing a leg over Sherlock, straddling him and sitting down on his thighs. 

James lines up their cocks, using the pre-come beading from his slit to slick them up a bit, takes them both in hand, and steadily pumps.

Sherlock closes his eyes tightly, chest heaving. If he tries, if he lets his imagination take over, he can pretend it's John straddling him, John's hand encircled around him, John's cock sliding against his.

But then James speaks and ruins the phantasm with a simple, reverent, " _Fuck. Yes_." James leans over and kisses Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock responds in kind, nipping and tugging at James's lips with his teeth, letting out an embarrassing whimper when James does the same to him. 

Sherlock belatedly realises he needs to reciprocate a bit more, slaps James's hand away and grabs hold of their cocks, pumping wildly.

James grunts encouragingly, thrusting up into Sherlock's hand, eyes glazed, then shakes his head vehemently. "Wait. Too soon," James breathes. Sherlock stills his hand, and James slides down his body, grabs hold of Sherlock's shaft; his lips fit around Sherlock's glans, tongue darting out to lap up his pre-come.

Sherlock arches his back, lets his mouth fall open, slack, and closes his eyes again. James takes more of Sherlock in his mouth and Sherlock feels his orgasm begin to ripple through him. "I'm--god, _John_ ," Sherlock breathes out without second-thought, his mind going terrifyingly blank. He comes down James's throat and James takes it all, until the last drop.

On the come down, Sherlock's body succumbs to a sweet, sedate pliancy. However, it lasts all of two seconds as the realisation of what he'd said-- _John_ \--slams into him. He wants to apologise, he wants to disappear--but James is coughing rather violently and should probably be his first priority.

Sherlock, arms wobbly, pushes himself upright. "Are you--"

"Fine," James says hoarsely. "Fine, I'm fine." He raises himself up on his knees, and his cock bobs against his stomach, flushed and needy.

"Let me." Sherlock gets on his knees and crawls toward James. He sits on his haunches, holds James cock in hand. He hesitates for a moment.

"Please, Sherlock," James begs.

Sherlock licks his lips, then takes James in his mouth.  

"Fuck. _Fuck_ ," James hisses above him. "Look at you. God."

Sherlock remains focussed on the task, trying to assess optimal stimulation techniques, suckling James's glans, swirling his tongue, then taking him deeper, deeper, slowly pulling off--

In one swift motion, James moans, pulls out of Sherlock's mouth completely with a pop and spills himself on Sherlock's face. Sherlock closes his eyes and waits until James is finished.

"God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should have warned you," James says, breath ragged, after he's fully spent. Sherlock opens his eyes to find a concerned James watching him. 

"Not a problem," Sherlock murmurs, wiping a glob of come from his eyebrow before it drips into his eye.

"I'll get you a flannel," James says hastily. He gets off the bed and leaves, comes back with two damp flannels in hand. He dutifully cleans Sherlock's face. "Er, there's a bit on your hair. Sorry--" 

Sherlock snatches the flannel from James, annoyed, and cleans himself off. 

When he's acceptably clean, Sherlock sits cross-legged at a corner of the bed, staring down at the duvet. Blessedly, James doesn't try to talk to him.

He feels quite sated, relaxed, more relaxed than he's feel in awhile. It's been more than a decade since he's last had sex and he's forgotten how truly calming, freeing it could be; a healthy alternative to drugs. But he's unsure of what he's meant to do now. Or say. His embarrassing slip-up hangs over his head like a kind of sword of Damocles. He doesn't know what to expect--will James be upset by it? Will he even bring it up? Or will it be left unsaid? Sherlock sorely hopes so.

"You're welcome to stay the night," James says after a long stretch of silence. Perhaps he won't bring it up, after all.

"I'd rather not," Sherlock says decisively.

"It's very late, and you've a long trip back. You're not tired?"

"No."

"Well, all right." A pause. "I really hope to see you again."

Sherlock looks over at James, who's propped on his side, watching him carefully. The moonlight filters through the blinds, a dim glow limning his pale skin and his cool, ice-blue eyes. Sherlock wonders how John would look in the moonlight of his bedroom, lying in his bed at 221b.

"I thought I'd make you forget about him, but I know it's not that easy," James says softly, apropos of nothing. Sherlock's heart races. James holds Sherlock's gaze. "Believe me--I know."

Sherlock wonders, fleetingly, how exactly he _knows_ (how could he possibly know, who could he possibly _be_ to John [though, perhaps Sherlock has an idea]) before suddenly feeling dirty, wrong, and deciding he no longer wants to be in this room, in this house, in this city. Sherlock rises from bed, puts on his discarded clothes, smooths down his shirtfront, his hair.

He turns around, clears his throat. "Good bye, then."

"I'll e-mail you my mobile number," James says. "Have a good night, Sherlock." He offers a enigma of a smile, a thing that Sherlock can't quite read: pitying? sad? wistful?

Sherlock gives him a nod, then flees.

* * *

**We’re back. You really realise how much you miss this miserable place when you’re gone for even a little while -JW**

**You okay? -JW**

These are the texts Sherlock had last received from John. One month ago. Sherlock hadn't responded, and John got the hint and stopped texting him.

Sherlock doesn't want to think about John anymore. Too distracting. None of the Work can possibly get done with John constantly on his mind. Besides, John has a new life--Mary, the baby, the suburbs, a cushy job, boring wedded bliss--that barely involves him, that doesn't need him. John's moved on. Why can't Sherlock?

Sherlock can't; no matter how hard he tries, he can't. But perhaps he can try, again, to forget.

Sherlock composes a text.

**James. 221b Baker Street, Saturday, 8:00. -SH**

After a few hours, Sherlock receives a response.

**Sherlock, hello to you too.... I'm glad you've decided you want to see me again. I really did enjoy the other night. -JS**

**I think it could be far more enjoyable, don't you? I want you to fuck me this time. Am clean. I trust you are too, after hospital checks. -SH**

This reply comes instantly.

 **I am, yes. I am. My god, y** **ou really get me hot. -JS**

Sherlock smirks down at the text. 

The doorbell rings--a client. Sherlock sighs, locks his mobile. "Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock calls out; he really hopes this is a good one. It's been awhile since he's had a decent case.

He listens as Mrs Hudson escorts the client upstairs.

"Dear, you have a--"

"Come in," Sherlock interjects.

The client enters: she's a small older woman, a politician. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Sherlock motions to the sofa.

"Sit. State your name and your case," Sherlock says brusquely, flopping into his armchair.

The woman sits and looks up him with sad, pleading eyes. "I'm called Elizabeth Smallwood. And, Mr Holmes--I'm being blackmailed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There really won't be much about Magnussen at all). Also, John makes his first appearance in the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is sitting up in his bed, duvet covering his bare body from the waist down, puffing on a cigarette and distantly watching the rain splatter and slide down the windowpane. All the while, he can practically feel James's stare boring into him. It's irritating. 

"What is it?" Sherlock says tetchily, spitting out the words in spurts of smoke. He looks over at James accusingly.

Beside him, James is postured less modestly than Sherlock. He's sitting up, his body is uncovered, one long leg is stretched out, the other bent at the knee and cocked outwardly, his flaccid cock resting against his thigh, hand resting on his stomach. 

“You're in love with him," he states simply.

The cigarette drops from Sherlock's fingers onto his chest, causing him to hiss in anticipation of a burn. He doesn't get burned, luckily, scrambles to pick up the cigarette and stamp it out in the ashtray on the sidetable. 

James waits, patient. Sherlock can see it in his eyes: he's known from the very beginning. Sherlock had been rather obvious that first night, after all. But Sherlock won't vocalise it so readily; he can barely admit it to himself. It's something he doesn't understand, it has no logic to it, and that frightens him.

Sherlock looks out the window again. “Were you?” he ventures. It's a bold question, a small gamble. But it's been in the back of Sherlock's mind since his and James's first night together.

“Yes," James says easily.

Sherlock looks back at James, astounded, even if he half expected that answer. James seems unperturbed, completely unmoved by his own admission. Or perhaps Sherlock is misreading it--perhaps the placidity is actually resignation. Questions brim on his tongue, particularly invasive questions about the logistics of James and John's relationship, but he only asks one.

“Did he, um." Sherlock hates the word, but he says it, albeit sarcastically, "‘Love’ you back?” 

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock snorts. “How can you not know?”

James takes his brusque attitude in stride. “Desperation and love get a bit muddled during war. Though, I suppose they aren't mutually exclusive."

Sherlock considers this. “Why did you…stop?” It's a vague question, but James seems to understand his meaning.

“Oh, several reasons," James answers. "First off, we were tired of hiding. Then, after he was invalided, we literally, physically, couldn’t be together anymore anyway--we thought it best to avoid the hassle of pursuing a 'long-distance' relationship. Then there was the crux of the matter: being with me wasn’t the life he imagined. He wanted a family, children, white-picket fence and all. That's not what I wanted. I didn't know what I wanted. But I didn’t want him to have to wait around for me. He has almost no family in London and needed to start anew. Waiting for me would have held him back from starting his life. I loved him, and I wanted to be with him, but not if he wasn't going to be happy with me."

Some of this resonates with Sherlock, especially John's desire for children and Sherlock's distaste of the idea. But most of it was different, of course. He and John had never had any kind of sexual contact, which James and John very likely had. John was not interested in Sherlock that way; they've known each other for years, and John had never expressed interest in anything more than a friendship with him. James had had his taste of John, which is more than Sherlock can say.

...And, now knowing this, Sherlock is suddenly irrationally jealous.

"Look, Sherlock," James says, cutting into his thoughts. Sherlock feels James's hand on his arm and looks down at it, willing it away. "It'll mostly go away, how you feel about him." James runs his hand down Sherlock's arm, clasps Sherlock's hand in his and squeezes. "It just takes time. For now, you have me."

Sherlock pulls his hand away, agitated. He doesn't want to talk about this anymore, doesn't want to think about it. His eyes skate down James's body, hungry, then he throws the duvet off himself, throws a leg over James's torso, sits down, and runs his hands up James's chest. James stares up at him, starry-eyed; like Sherlock is the greatest gift to the world.

Sherlock flashes a smirk with an arch playfulness that he doesn't entirely feel. "Ready for another round?" 

* * *

Magnussen is on his knees, cowering in fear. His hands are raised in surrender, head bowed in defeated supplication.

His apparent intimidator, Mary Watson, or, rather, someone else entirely, someone new, a stranger, is pointing a gun squarely at Sherlock's chest.

How could Sherlock have been so egregiously blind?

“John’s not with you, is he?” Mary asks, tone flat and disinterested.

“Whatever Magnussen has on you, Mary, I can help,” Sherlock assures with what he thinks is a rather convincing calm timbre, holding out his hands in placation.

“Answer me, Sherlock. John. Is he with you?” Mary asks, matching Sherlock's cool tone.

“No,” Sherlock says slowly. “No, he’s not."

Mary nods once, decisive. She turns toward Magnussen, points the gun at his head, and pulls the trigger.

Sherlock inhales sharply, recoils in shock, as Magnussen falls into a limp heap. Mary smoothly turns the gun back on him. Sherlock stares, awed, horrified, at Magnussen’s lifeless body, at the crimson nimbus of blood pooling from his head.

Once the initial shock wears, Sherlock meets Mary’s steely, unfamiliar eyes. “Why--" Sherlock starts, tremulous, then stops himself. Calm. He needs to remain calm. "Why didn’t you come to me for help?” 

“Because I couldn’t let John know,” Mary says. “It’d break his heart." Her eyes glint. "And he won’t ever know. You won’t tell him.”

Sherlock won't tell John, of course. John would feel so utterly betrayed. He is happy with Mary—Mary is his life; they are steadily paving an idyllic life together. John's going to have a child with her. 

Sherlock can't possibly risk John’s happiness. 

Mary cocks her gun. “ _Sherlock_. You won’t tell John.”

Sherlock holds up his hands. “I won’t," he says, numb. "I won't tell him."

“Promise me,” Mary demands. She steps closer.

“I promise."

Mary looks him up and down, perhaps weighing the truth of his words. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly. But I don’t believe you.”

Soon, there’s a fiery-hot piercing pain in Sherlock's chest. He falls backwards immediately and the world pitches into darkness.

* * *

The very first thing Sherlock hears when he awakes is the sneering drawl of his brother.

“Welcome back, brother mine.”

Sherlock turns his head slightly to find Mycroft standing stiffly near the window like a towering gargoyle. 

“I’m in Hell, aren’t I?” Sherlock says, intending to sound snide but instead sounding embarrassingly shaky and weak. His chest suddenly throbs with a sharp slice of pain. "Ah, _god_ ," Sherlock says squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh, _hell,_ that hurts _._ " 

The pain passes after a few agonising moments, and Sherlock opens his eyes to find Mycroft hovering over his bed with his chin raised, quite literally looking down his nose at Sherlock.

“Are you quite done?"

"What do you _want_?" Sherlock barks.

"I told you not to get involved with Magnussen.”

“Well it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Sherlock bites out. "He's dead." The pain starts up again; he reaches over to turn up his morphine dosage, but Mycroft takes his wrist in a vice grip, halting him.

“Tell me who."

Sherlock glances around the room instead. He finds two empty coffee cups, a visitor’s seat flush against the far right wall, recently sat in, and a brown bomber jacket hanging from the back of it. _John_. His stomach does a funny little flutter.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock says, sounding pathetically weak.

Mycroft’s grip tightens on his wrist, and he leans over so his and Sherlock's faces are mere inches apart, intimidatingly close. Sherlock turns his head away.

“Tell me who shot you, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft says darkly.

“Mary Watson!” Sherlock grits out. "Now, let go of me."

Mycroft blanches, but only for a fraction of a second. Catching Mycroft off-guard is undoubtedly the eighth wonder of the world. He releases his grip on Sherlock, stands to his full height.

“And Mrs Watson did away with Magnussen, I presume," Mycroft says, all ice.

“Have the police seen the body yet?” Sherlock asks.

“Of course they have. You've been incapacitated for hours."

Sherlock obviously wouldn’t be implicated. There was no weapon to be found. Besides, he was shot; he’d have hardly shot Magnussen and then himself. The police were imbeciles, but not completely brainless. 

“I need you to magic it away,” Sherlock says hoarsely, a dull pain starting up again in his chest. He turns up the morphine dosage, and relaxes into the mattress.

Mycroft scowls at him. “Excuse me?”

“Do whatever it is that you do,” Sherlock says hazily, melting into the mattress as the drugs massage his pain away. “Make certain Mary isn’t implicated.”

Mycroft’s mouth twists in disgust. “And why on earth would you bother protecting _her_?”

“Just do it, Mycroft,” Sherlock drawls. Mycroft regards him, his silent judgment echoing throughout the room. Quietly, Sherlock adds, “Please. And don't ask questions. Please, just do this for me."

“I will see what I can do,” Mycroft says after some time. He turns his head toward the door. “This room is about to get more crowded, and I’d rather not be here for that. It’s stifling enough as is.” He glances at Sherlock. “Do sleep well,” he offers, then glides out of the room.

“He’s awake,” Sherlock hears Mycroft tell someone in the hall.

There are quick plodding footsteps, and John appears in the doorway, framed by the soft yellow light of the hall, a steaming-hot coffee cup in his hand. At the sight of Sherlock, his eyes light up.

“Sherlock,” he breathes out. 

"John," Sherlock says, so softly that he's sure John hadn't heard.

John places the coffee aside, grabs the visitor’s chair, brings it bedside, and sits down. He reaches out, looks like he wants to touch Sherlock, but quickly decides against it, instead darting his eyes over Sherlock’s body, glancing at his vitals, then finally meeting Sherlock’s eyes. 

At this closer proximity, Sherlock thinks he looks very tired. He must have been at the hospital all night. The thought is heartening.

“First time I see you in a month and you’ve been shot,” John says, huffing out a wry laugh. He smiles, a fond thing. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on a case? I could’ve been there, I could’ve—“ John cuts himself off, smile immediately dissipating. He shakes his head. “I had a bit of a chat with Mycroft, you know. That Magnussen—he was dangerous.”

“I had it under control,” Sherlock says, pushing himself to sit upright, wincing.

“Says the man who took a bloody bullet.” John glowers at Sherlock’s wound, now neatly bandaged up. “So who did it? You saw the shooter, yeah? They would've been facing you."

Sherlock wants to tell John, truly, but there’s no way he’d believe Sherlock. He’d need to wait for the right moment, he’d need to lure Mary to him and have _her_ tell John the truth.

“I don't know."

“Nice try. The person was standing right in front of you; tell me who shot you," John growls. He leans over, drops his voice to a low register. "I'm going to find them whether you like it or not."

“One of Magnussen’s henchmen,” Sherlock says quickly. He needs to bide his time. John will know, but not now. He wants to _show_  John who. Revenge will be sweeter that way. “I don't know who he is."

John considers him for a moment. "Right, well what did he look like?" John's tone has become eerily calm.

"I'd rather not talk about it right now. I'm very tired," Sherlock lies. He reaches over ostensibly to pick up the full glass of water that had been filled many hours ago by a nurse, most likely, and instead knocks off John's hot cup of coffee, making sure it splatters onto John's shoe.

John's chair scrapes backwards, and he stands up, goggling at his coffee-stained shoe.

"Sorry," Sherlock says.

John doesn't seem angry about it. He offers Sherlock a small, distracted smile. "It's fine. I'll just--I'll go clean this up," he says. "Will be right back."

Once John's gone, moving as quickly as his body allows, Sherlock removes his IV, gets off the bed, dresses himself, and opens the window with some significant effort. He takes in a lungful of the fresh air, slips a leg over the sill, and ignores the raw pain in his chest as he climbs out of the room and onto a ledge. 

* * *

Weeks later, after Sherlock sets Mary up and John finds out about her former, rather unorthodox profession (the Watsons had had a bit of a falling out after this, as predicted, but they were now trying to work things out), while he's in the shower, he hears the door to the sitting room open and close.

“It’s me!” John announces.

Sherlock freezes.

John had insisted on getting a spare key to the flat in the event that Sherlock needed any kind of urgent medical assistance (even though John didn’t even live close by, wouldn't be able to get to the flat in time in case of a dire emergency). Sherlock called on him only once early on, but John has dropped by unsolicited for a few days each week since to make sure Sherlock was taking proper care of his wound and of himself.

Sherlock usually doesn’t mind. Though, that's an understatement--there’s nothing more he wants than to see John. But today was a bit different; tonight, Sherlock isn't alone at the flat.

Sherlock had received three texts from James last night.

**I'll be in London tomorrow. I haven't seen you for quite some time. I hope I haven't done something to upset you. Would you care to see me? -JS**

**I miss your lovely lips, your body. -JS**

**There are days I can't stop thinking about you. I worry I won't be able to see you again. Your silence speaks volumes, and I'm sorry if I've done something. Please let me know how I can fix it. -JS**

Sherlock hadn't needed the sweet talk, could have done without the delicate concern--he had, indeed, cared to see James and told James as much.

When he arrived at 221b, James had been shocked to find out that Sherlock was recovering from a gunshot wound. For the past few weeks, Sherlock hadn't really spoken to James, turned him down without explanation every time James asked if he could make his usual conjugal visit to 221b. But, after all these weeks without James (without sex), Sherlock needed to see him, was on edge and desperately needed release. Sherlock had taken care of his needs by himself for the past few weeks, partly because of his injury and partly because John had been around 221b quite frequently to tend to him.

It'd taken some convincing; James hadn't yielded to Sherlock's pleas right away.

" _James_ ," Sherlock had practically whinged. 

"I don't want to hurt you."

"It's healed significantly. We needn't do anything strenuous, for god's sake. There'll be some room for creativity."

There had been some more hemming and hawing on James's part, but eventually he conceded, lay Sherlock out on his bed, undid Sherlock with his tongue, his deft fingers. Sherlock had reciprocated with a lazy handjob. 

Sherlock had been so preoccupied with James that he hadn't planned for a possible visit from John tonight. He should have considered it. And, now, James is holed up in Sherlock's bedroom, John is in the sitting room, and Sherlock's unable to do anything about it.

Sherlock turns off the showerhead and hears his bedroom door opening, closing, James's footsteps plodding into the sitting room. Sherlock stumbles out of the shower, sopping wet, and presses his ear to the door to listen to the impending exchange. 

John's astonished voice. “What-- _James_?”

“Hello, John." James's monotone acknowledgment.

“No need to sound so excited."

“I’m sorry. It’s just--this is a…surprise. What are you—“

“What are you doing here?" John talks over James. "I mean, god, sorry. Sorry. It’s great to see you. Really. But—why are you. You know I don't live here anymore." A bad joke. 

"I am vaguely aware of that,” James says coolly. "How's Mary?"

“She’s okay. Good,” John says, tone unusually acerbic. There's a stretch of silence. "How're you? How is your back?"

"Much better, thank you."

"It's healed well, then."

"Quite."

"I'm sorry I haven't phoned. Really, that was wrong of me. I should've checked in on you."

"Not a problem," James says. "You were more than enough help the day I got the injury. Besides, you know how I am." Sherlock can't read his tone.

"Still. I should have--"

"It's fine, John."

"...What's brought you here?"

“I’m here to see Sherlock."

“Oh," John says, revelatory. "Oh, Christ, of course. What's happened, then? Sherlock should've told me he was taking your case. Of all people--"

“There's no case, John. Everything is fine.”

John clears his throat. “Well. That's good."

“Yes."

“Right."

"I suspect Sherlock will be out of the shower soon," James says despite the fact that the water is very apparently no longer running. Has Sherlock given himself away? Perhaps he should--

"Okay. Uh," John says, oblivious. "I'll just--"

"Have a seat? Perhaps I'll--would you care for some tea?" 

"No. I'm good, cheers."

"...Okay."

Sherlock blows out a breath. Good lord, this exchange is  _unbearably_ awkward; he can't endure it anymore. He grabs the robe hanging off the towel rack, slips it on. He steels himself, swings open the door and strides into the sitting room, all casual innocence.

"Oh. Hello, John," Sherlock says, pretending to be surprised.

"Hey," John says, eyes snapping to Sherlock. He hasn't sat down, looks a bit uneasy. At least James has dressed in full, looks perfectly coiffed and not sex-mussed--unfortunately, he _had_ come out of Sherlock's bedroom. John's eyes fall to Sherlock's chest. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Sherlock says. James looks at Sherlock, a question in his eyes. Sherlock hasn't any answers.

The three of them are standing in a semi-circle, waiting for someone to speak, no one wanting to be the first.

John eventually shakes his head and looks between Sherlock and James. “So. What’s going on here?”

“We're conspiring to blow up Parliament,” James deadpans. 

John huffs out a wry laugh. "I wouldn't be surprised, honestly, if that were true. It may as well be true, because I can't think of any other possible explanation."

“If you must know, James and I have become friends,” Sherlock says airily.

“ _Friends_?” John repeats incredulously. He looks at James in amused disbelief. James holds John's gaze, admirably unflinching. “Really?” John looks back to Sherlock, agog. “You two are _friends_. The two most unsociable men on the planet are friends. How does that work, then?” John crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for an explanation.

“It works as any friendship would,” Sherlock says, a touch sharply, tossing his head. “We find good company in each other.” 

James smirks as John’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. “Oh yeah? What could you two _possibly_ talk about?” He looks over at James, whose smirk drops immediately. “What could you possibly have in common?”

“Ooh, I wonder,” Sherlock lilts sardonically. James smothers a smile.

“What does that mean?” John says with a tinge of hostility, whipping his attention back to Sherlock.

“Despite popular belief, I am capable of having friends other than you, John,” Sherlock says, indignant.

“Nope, not buying it. You two are very good liars, usually, but I’m not buying this.” He gestures frenetically in the air at Sherlock and James as an indication of _this_.

“John,” James starts. “Sherlock and I—”

Sherlock cuts in, heart pounding fast: “I’m sure John couldn’t care less.”

John isn't stupid; surely he knows at this point. They needn't say it aloud, needn't have a conversation about it. Sherlock hadn't wanted to tell John about him and James--there were emotional repercussions at play. Since he knew for certain about James's former feelings toward John, wouldn't it be discomfiting for James? Besides, Sherlock has never told John about his sexual relationships and wasn't about to start now. He never brings it up with anyone, not since his first experience in University; he'd always thought it made him weak and showing weakness was not an option.

Sure, he's succumbed to it again, just a bit. He may be weak for James's touch--he may crave it sometimes. But craving it is better than the alternative, which is an all-consuming obsession with John, with feelings for John. Feelings that follow him like a shadow. 

In sum, it's all best left unsaid. 

“I think _I_ can decide what I could or couldn’t care less about,” John says, dropping his arms to his sides, his hands clenching into fists, unclenching.

Sherlock is bemused. “Why are you getting angry?”

“I’m not angry!” John protests.

“John,” James says quietly. “Calm down. Please.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, James!” John roars.

“ _Soldier_!” James chides, projecting his voice—a rare, frightening, wonderful occurrence.

Sherlock lets out a soft gasp.

John shakes his head, scrubs a hand down his face. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” James says reassuringly, voice back to its natural pitch.

Both John and James turn to Sherlock, who watches them, riveted.

John seems at a loss for a moment. "Well. I probably should've texted before I--uh. I'm intruding. So. I'll be going." He turns around, makes to leave.

"Wait," Sherlock says without thinking, stepping forward.

"Yes?" John asks curtly.

"You've only just got here," Sherlock says lamely.

"Perhaps it is I who should be going," James says uncertainly. "It's getting late and it's a long trip home, as you both well know."

"You've been to his place?" John asks Sherlock, practically an accusation.

"Ye-es," Sherlock says apprehensively. 

John purses his lips, looks to the floor. "Why?" 

"Because I was invited," Sherlock answers simply. "And thus was the inception of our _friendship_."

John throws a hard look at James, and James looks away. John nods and sniffs with finality. "Okay. Sherlock. I'll be back." John offers Sherlock a patently faux-smile. Sherlock hates it. "I'll come back, I mean. Another day. Sorry for..." he waves a dismissive hand and starts for the door.

Sherlock starts to protest: "John, wait--"

John talks over Sherlock, adding a firm, "We should meet for a pint sometime, James, yeah?" 

"Yes. We should," James says carefully.

"I'm off," John says shortly, heading out the door, down the stairs, and out of the building.

Sherlock blinks, confounded. He looks over at James, who looks thoroughly uncomfortable.

"He's angry," James says slowly.

"What on earth is there to be angry about?" Sherlock asks, genuinely curious.

James gives Sherlock a look of what Sherlock can easily mistake as guilt. "I should go."

"You can stay over, if you'd like," Sherlock says, offended that everyone suddenly wishes to abandon him post-haste.

"No, no. You should rest."

"Oh, please," Sherlock spits out.

"I'll see you again soon."

"How soon?" Sherlock says, following James into the bedroom.

"I'll let you know," James says quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and shoes. 

"Fine," Sherlock concedes petulantly. "Might we roleplay next time?" 

James looks up at him as his ties his shoes, eyes shining with amusement. "You really enjoyed that, didn't you?"

Sherlock wills himself not to flush. "Obviously."

"I've never met someone with a...military fetish."

Sherlock looks away, a bit flustered. "Well?" he says impatiently.

"If it's what you want."

"Excellent," Sherlock says, eyes gleaming.

James gives him a fond smile that lasts a whole two seconds. The fondness falters, and he's suddenly pensive. Sherlock wonders why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good holiday/New Year's, replete with food and wine and other alcoholic beverages. Sorry for the delay with this chapter.
> 
> Has everyone seen the special? Is it just me or did it seem like a manic love note to diehard fans?
> 
> Until next time.


	4. Chapter 4

"Back against the wall.”

Sherlock tosses his head, tilts his chin up, and looks James dead on. “No.”

James takes a step forward, and Sherlock takes a step back.

“ _No?"_

“No, _sir_ ,” Sherlock adds cheekily.

James's eyes turn to steel. “ _Get your fucking back against the wall, Holmes!_ ”

The roaring command causes Sherlock’s stomach to flutter excitedly, and he feels blindly behind himself for the wall and plasters himself against it.

“Your impudence is getting out of hand." James prowls closer until he can press his bare chest against Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s mouth falls open, slack, at the pressure of James’s sturdy body against his, James's trousers allowing a sweet friction against Sherlock's semi-erect cock. "Did you learn nothing in training?” James hovers his mouth over Sherlock's tantalizingly, their warm breath intermingling. James pulls back, and Sherlock snaps his mouth shut. "Turn around.”

Sherlock shakes his head, defiant.

James’s hand slides down Sherlock’s waist, then slips between Sherlock’s left buttock and the wall, taking a handful and squeezing hard. As Sherlock squirms against him, James pushes up against Sherlock roughly, jerking him against the wall.

“You are a brave one, soldier," James says, pitching his voice to a low register. "In all the wrong ways."

James steps back, then grips Sherlock’s left shoulder and leans in so they're nose to nose. "Do as I say and I won't punish you too horribly."

Sherlock doesn't move.

" _About face, soldier!_ " James booms.

Sherlock hastily turns and faces the wall, flattens his palms against it and spreads his legs.

“My god,” James says softly, reverently, falling out of character. He runs an exploratory hand down the slope of Sherlock’s back, over the swell of his arse, then pulls away. Sherlock's breath stutters.

James slips back into his role with ease. “I’m going to have you against the wall, and you'll be mine. You’ll never disobey me again."

“ _Yes, Captain_ ,” Sherlock drawls indulgently, playing his part with extra finesse. He arches his back desperately, spreads his legs wider, closes his eyes: ready for John to take him.

James falls silent for a long, interminable moment. He's silent for so long, that Sherlock has to look over his shoulder to check that he hadn’t fled the room.

One look at James’s contemplative expression makes Sherlock furious. “Get on with it,” he snipes.

James’s hard-edged character is nowhere to be found in his dour monotone: “I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock.”

Sherlock brings his legs together, turns around, and crosses his arms over his chest protectively. 

James is gathering his crumpled shirt from the bed, slipping an arm into a sleeve.

“For god’s sake,” Sherlock grouses after a few moments, but James doesn’t bother to acknowledge him, continues to dress himself. “ _James_.”  James stops, looks up, and Sherlock scans his face searchingly. “You can't be serious.”

James finishes buttoning up his shirt and tells the floor, “This is wrong."

“I can promise you we won’t burn in hell."

“This isn’t the time for jokes.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, get a sense of humour."

James doesn't react in any way, begins to tuck his shirt into his trousers.

Sherlock snipes, “I thought you didn’t _care_.”

“I thought I didn’t either," James agrees.

Sherlock doesn’t understand this sudden sensitivity. James has never acted this way before, had always let Sherlock indulge in his piteous little fantasies. 

“Have I really, truly offended you?” Sherlock asks.

James averts his eyes, oddly obsequious. “You and John need to sort this out.”

The utterance of John's name feels not unlike a bucket of ice-water being hurled into Sherlock's face. 

“Excuse me?" 

James looks to Sherlock’s bare feet, then trails his gaze up Sherlock’s body, drinking it in, the way a parched man would. “It is too bad for me, I suppose. Any man would be lucky to have you.” James raises his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, and Sherlock feels a flush creeping up his body, much to his chagrin. “It isn’t fair to him.”

“What isn’t fair to whom?” Sherlock asks icily. 

James gives him a withering look, as if Sherlock is the daftest person on the planet. “This. John.”

Sherlock inhales sharply. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you implying that us fucking isn’t fair to _John,_ who is married to a woman with a child on the way, in case you weren't aware? The selfsame John who will never know that I’ve alluded to him during sex with you, a man who was his former fumbling, experimental object of lust?”

James looks pained, just for a moment, by Sherlock’s thoughtless remark, but quickly schools his expression into a practiced mask of stolidity. “I’m trying to do the right thing. John is my friend, and I’ve not done right by him. You have become a friend to me, and I’ve not done right by you either.”

“What do you mean, ‘the right thing?'," Sherlock hisses. “Your sanctimony makes no logical sense.”

James huffs out an exasperated breath. “He hasn’t said it in so many words, but I believe John is in love with you.”

Sherlock barks out a disdainful laugh, hugs himself tighter. “Ah, there it is, that elusive sense of humour.”

“You don’t need to believe me, but you should know that’s my perception of the thing and that’s why I find all of this...." He shakes his head, seemingly unable to conjure a word to define the situation. "I thought it from the beginning, when he wrote to me about you when you were gone for those years, that he loved you like a widower loves her late husband. He never spoke to me the way he spoke of you.”

Sherlock, somewhat shaken, takes two long steps toward the pile of discarded clothes near his bed, steps into his pants, and sits on the edge of the bed. He maintains a blankly detached expression, but his mind is whirring.

Not possible. Is it?

Of course not.

But is it?

A resounding _no._

“You are making an assumption on the basis of subtext. Interpretation. And your muddled emotional connection to John is influencing erroneous conclusions about John’s romantic feelings toward others."

James smiles sadly or, perhaps, pityingly. “It is not something that is substantiated in facts, Sherlock. It just _is_."

What reason would James have to lie? Perhaps it is a way out of seeing Sherlock; a "break-up," to put it simply. He's machinated a lie steeped in chivalry in the hopes of cushioning the blow to Sherlock's feelings (not that Sherlock would actually have damaged feelings). Maybe James is too socially tactless to terminate their little arrangement any other way. Sherlock could understand that.

But, then again, James is always rather persistent with Sherlock, constantly wants to see him and constantly wants sex. To end their arrangement so brashly, now, in the midst of foreplay is a bit shocking and out of character.

Had Sherlock's Freudian slip been the last straw? Had it been one too many pinpricks against James's ego?

There was also the fact that James hadn't been completely sure if John had "loved" him back when they were sexually involved. So it is, indeed, highly likely his perceptions of John's romantic feelings are skewed.

Why bring it up at all when it is unproven? And why now? Is James really so staunchly loyal to John that even the _possibility_ of John having non-platonic affection for Sherlock would give him pause?

Sherlock's so lost in thought that he doesn’t realise James has left his bedroom until he hears the front door of 221 close.

* * *

 

The next day, Sherlock decides to dismiss James's ludicrous assumption about John's feelings for Sherlock and move on. Days and weeks pass. He doesn't hear from James, as expected. He hears from John occasionally, but it's almost always to do with his clinical concern about the healing progress of the bullet wound. Sadly, he hadn't seen John since the run-in with James at 221b. His efforts to get John to dine with him and, one time, join him on a (simple, uneventful) case, were for naught, rejected without any substantial excuse.

He sorely misses John.

Mrs Hudson pays him a visit every so often, but Sherlock is generally alone and it's starting to get to him. There's also a bit of an itch that needs scratching--going from having frequent sex to having none at all was jarring, and he is really rather beginning to miss it. Unfortunately, for all his talents, he is out of his depths when it comes to approaching men. He isn't the least bit interested in dating, only casual sex, and he doesn't know how to broach the topic without having to go through the motions of courtship.

Sherlock doesn't often consult others for help, as he is often too proud to admit he doesn't know something. But he's desperate and he knows the perfect person to lend him her...wisdom on the subject. 

He sends out a text.

**Are you currently seeing someone and, if not, would you like to be? -SH**

**Nice try, but I've had better pick-up lines.**

**Answer the question. Please. -SH**

**So he does have manners! No and why not? But I've had my fill of you, I think, so that's out of the question. Why, pray tell, do you care?**

**Quid pro quo. I help you find someone, you help me. -SH**

**You're taking the piss.**

**No. -SH**

**Some kind of experiment?**

**Not quite. But it'll still be great fun. -SH**

**Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?**

**Will you or won't you? -SH**

**You know, I can never figure you out, and that's what I like about you. Keeps me on my toes. You've got my attention.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied infidelity (i.e., Sherlock and a married stranger).

Sherlock looks across the pub and leers at a small, compact blond man sitting with his rather rambunctious friends. He’s quite young (23? 24?) and brawny, has an attractive air of confidence about him, and (most importantly) is most certainly gay. Sherlock had latched onto him the moment he’d set foot inside.

“What about that one?”

Janine is mid-sip, and descends into a coughing fit. “God, I just got here. Give me a moment.”

“It’s been eight minutes. You’ve had more than several moments.”

“You’re impatient.”

“You’re slow.”

Janine huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Sweetheart, you do realise I’m doing you a favour.”

Sherlock exhales out of his nose, frustrated. “Quid. Pro. Quo.”

“Yeah, I got that, but we’ve tried this three times and you still haven’t found me a decent man.”

“It's not my fault you're so picky.”

"Oi, maybe you're just off your game!"

Sherlock feels his mobile vibrate in his pocket.

Sherlock removes the mobile and places it on the table just as Janine does the same. He swipes the text banner and punches in his passcode to find a photo of Rosie Watson, now two and a half weeks old, sleeping soundly in her cot. A slate of light from an open window throws Rosie's tiny, slacken face in relief, presumably Mary’s attempt at taking an “artistic” photo.

“Oh, how exciting.” Janine cocks her head. “It’s a new angle.”

Mary had added Sherlock, Janine, John, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg, James, and two unknowns to a group chat, where she’d been sending photos of little Rosie in various states of slumber for the past week.

Despite all logical reasoning to the contrary, Sherlock feels like it’s a personal attack against him, like Mary’s taunting him. It’s as if, with these photos, she’s saying: _here’s proof that John will never leave me. Here’s proof that John loves me and not you._

It’s a horrible, selfish thought, but Sherlock is a horrible, selfish man.

He fleetingly wonders how James feels about it all.

Does he (everyday) think of what he could have done differently to keep John? Does he hate himself for being someone John could never love?

But James had his chance with John. Sherlock won't, not ever.

James isn't his concern anymore, anyway. The strange fantasy he had articulated to Sherlock concerning John's (alleged) romantic feelings toward Sherlock and his hasty departure and immediate dissolution of their (partnership? arrangement?) still confounds Sherlock and smarts, but Sherlock tries not to dwell on it.

James is a good man, Sherlock likes him well enough, but what he misses most about James is his body, having someone close. The sex. Sherlock needs to find someone to take his place. He is wound tight, needs release. He's been tempted to revisit alternative, potentially lethal outlets as a distraction (from Mary, John, Rosie, their blissful domesticity, his isolation, self-loathing), but had managed to convince himself that sex is a nearly comparable sensation (besides, John would never forgive him if he found out about the relapse).

“All right,” Janine says, locking her mobile and pocketing it. She waggles her eyebrows comically. “Let’s find you a man, yeah?”

The three men Janine helps him reel in turn out to be…clingy. At least in Sherlock’s opinion. Only once does she help him pick up someone in a bar. The other two times she sets him up with a family friend, the other, a friend of a friend.

Someone always, unfailingly, wants to continue seeing Sherlock, not only to have sex, but to go see a film, go to a museum, a café, or do other trite things that Sherlock doesn’t want to do with them. One of them even asked if Sherlock would want to meet his _mother_. Sherlock had laughed in the man’s face.

“String them along, then,” Janine had said coolly after he’d expressed his grievances about the men. “If all you want is to have sex with them, do as they say for a bit, then drop them.”

This is why he likes Janine: no pussy-footing. She has a dubious sense of ethics, sure, but Sherlock isn’t exactly the poster-child of rectitude either. “I can’t. They’re intolerable.”

Janine tut-tuts. “Come, now. You can’t even have a cup of coffee with what’s his face? The leathery one who looks like a footballer?”

Sherlock can’t recall his name either and doesn’t care to. He’s older than Sherlock, by ten to fifteen years, but is in excellent shape, arms corded with muscles, calves thick, stomach taut. All he had ever wanted to talk about was football and politics, and had asked Sherlock to call him ‘daddy’ in bed, which Sherlock had not agreed to because it made him unspeakably uncomfortable.

“I would rather be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

Janine snorts. “That bad?”

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder, offers no explanation.

“What about Mitchell? He’s a good egg.”

Mitchell is a Hawkins family friend. He’s the son of Janine’s mother’s uni friend; he and Janine were around the same age, had known each other since childhood. Mitchell is a bit of an aesthete, is too good a person for Sherlock, too innocent. Sherlock isn’t about to corrupt anyone.

“Precisely,” Sherlock says resolutely.

Janine considers him sympathetically--or pitifully. “You’re hopeless, baby doll.”

She means it affectionately, but Sherlock knows there’s too much truth in it. He _is_ hopeless. Without John to ground him, to love him (even platonically), he is hopeless.

John’s expanded his family, is loved and loves, while Sherlock remains desperate, greedily consuming any scraps of attention and affection that’s offered to him.

* * *

Sherlock looks at his watch; it’s half past 12. He’d stayed at Bart’s far longer than he’d anticipated. He’d almost discovered the meaning of the diamond-shaped lesions on the victim’s left lung, but perhaps he’d work better, have a clearer mind, and come to an easy solution tomorrow morning, after a “good night’s rest” (one of John’s longstanding mantras).

Molly, on the late shift, is off somewhere getting herself an early morning nosh, so Sherlock carefully returns Mr Whitfield’s corpse back into his slot and makes off.

After walking a few streets toward the tube, Sherlock realises there’s an unrelenting pressure on his bladder that he had steadfastly ignored, being so engrossed in his examinations. It can’t wait until he’s home, so he stops at the Smithfield toilets.

Once he chooses a urinal, unzips his trousers, he bristles at the sound of footsteps plodding down the stairs. He hadn’t noticed anyone in the vicinity on his way here—perhaps he’s over-tired and missed it. (It happens, though he never admits it to anyone).

He thinks no more of it, becoming pliant as the pressure on his bladder is alleviated.

The stranger chooses to stand two urinals over from Sherlock’s. Sherlock hazards a hasty glance and once-over: the man’s older than Sherlock by fifteen or so years, dressed in a leather jacket, t-shirt, jeans, greying at the temples of his brown hair, hunch-backed, broad-shouldered, and paunchy. He works as a banker, lives nearby, and is married with two children, teenage girls.

Sherlock’s scan had been decidedly quick and efficient, but the man had caught his glance—mainly because he’d been watching Sherlock all along.

Sherlock looks away, staring at the wall in front of him, his throat going dry. _That_ is rather socially unacceptable. Even _Sherlock_ is aware of proper men’s room protocol.

He hears rather than sees the man move to the urinal adjacent his, unzip his trousers, pull down his pants.

Glaringly, there’s no other sound.

Sherlock zips up, flushes his urinal, and makes a beeline for the sink, turning on the taps.

His curiosity overtakes him, and he looks over his shoulder. The man is standing sideways by the urinal, fisting his semi-erect cock. Sherlock’s heart-rate picks up with excitement, and when he meets the stranger’s eyes, he finds the man to be fixated wholly on him, confident, lascivious, eyes hooded. (The look of a man who’s obviously done this before).

Sherlock drops his gaze to see the man stroking his (not insignificant) cock until he’s fully erect. Sherlock watches, rapt, and his body betrays him; he begins to get hard.

The man, casting Sherlock an imploring look, moves into a stall, and Sherlock, tethered to his body’s whims, floats after him.

The tap is left running, forgotten.

The man reaches around Sherlock, shuts the door, and locks it. Sherlock plasters himself against the door, breath coming in shallow spurts, heart thrumming, and remains still, unsure what he’s meant to do.

Without preamble, the man reaches down, unzips Sherlock’s trousers, pulls down the waistband of his pants. Sherlock’s cock springs up eagerly, twitching and flushed, and the man takes hold of the shaft roughly. Sherlock let out a shaky sigh as the man, his uncalloused hand, strokes him to full hardness. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, tries sorely to pretend the man is someone else, pretend he’s back at 221b—but then the man begins to get forceful, impatient, and Sherlock can’t pretend any longer.

The man reaches up, hand flat on the top of Sherlock’s head, and pushes Sherlock down to his knees. Sherlock hits the floor hard, his knees throbbing, and the man gives him no reprieve, presses his cock insistently against Sherlock’s closed lips, painting his bottom lip with pre-come.

Sherlock becomes nearly catatonic.

“Open your mouth, you dumb slag,” the man with two daughters and a wife hisses in a hoarse voice, almost as if he hasn’t spoken for days.

Sherlock knows this is a patently bad idea, but his body is screaming to be touched. He had liked how the man’s hand had felt on him and he wants more; the only way to get more is to oblige the stranger now, so Sherlock opens his mouth and the man almost immediately pushes in. Sherlock retches, so the man pulls back, allowing Sherlock a slight reprieve, then pushes back mere moments after Sherlock’s regained his composure.

The man pumps his hips forward, grunting softly, and Sherlock just remains there, slack, on his knees, and lets the man use his mouth as a plaything, offering no technique.

The man claws then grabs Sherlock's hair and tugs, causing Sherlock to wince in pain, then picks up his thrusts, canting his hips wildly.

Just as Sherlock's jaw is starting to ache, the man grunts a bit louder, and Sherlock can feel his cock swell and knows he's on the precipice of his orgasm. Sherlock pulls off immediately and ducks for cover like he’s in a warzone, and the man lets out a euphoric sigh as he comes on the door.

Sherlock, on wobbly-knees, stands up. Once he’s at his full height, the man looks like he’s about to reach for Sherlock, Sherlock holds his breath, but he instead unlocks the stall door, and pushes Sherlock outside into the open with an annoyed grunt, his trousers bunched at his feet. Sherlock nearly trips over it, but manages to right himself before he does.

Without a word to or a glance at Sherlock, the man zips up and hurries up the stairs and out of sight.

Sherlock is shocked.

But shock quickly morphs into outrage, and he reassembles himself into a state of propriety, then takes off at a sprint after the man. He finds the man easily, grabs him by the back of his shirt and flings him into a nearby alleyway, pinning him up against the grimy wall.

“Your wife won’t be particularly happy to hear that you’re fucking men in public toilets while she’s sleeping,” Sherlock hisses into his ear with visceral disdain. “Neither will your daughters.”

The man's eyes widen with terror and he begins to sputter, begins thrashing fruitlessly for his freedom. Sherlock simply slams him against the wall, a silent warning to stop struggling or there'll be consequences. The man obediently falls limp.

“Please,” the man huffs, strained, then breaks down into a litany of sycophantic pleading. “Please, don’t. Please. I’m sorry— _please, don’t hurt me_.”

Sherlock is incensed, adrenalin singing in his veins. He could knock this man unconscious if he wanted to, but he quickly realises—what’s the point? Why is he even bothering? Why is he _so damn worked up?_

“Useless lowlife,” Sherlock scathes, and shoves the man to the ground.

The man falls with a startled, pained cry. “Fucking psycho,” the man says, quivering, scrambling to stand up.

Sherlock stands there, fists clenched, and watches, waits until the man high-tails it out of the alley and disappears around the corner. Sherlock’s breathing heavily. He turns on his heel and walks all the way home, where the first thing he does is wank furiously over the toilet, then remains wide-awake in bed, the back of his eyes prickling with tears.

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_

_This may be a long time coming, but I’m sorry we parted quickly and on less than favourable terms. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I missed you. Hope you’ve been well. Personally, I haven’t had the best month, though I have adopted a new dog to keep me company. Her name is Nemain, and she’s a sweet thing._

_John has reached out to me to see how I am, which he hasn’t done in a long time. I haven’t seen him in a while. I last saw him at your flat, in fact, almost a month and a half ago now—the last time I saw you as well. Though, I did express my congratulations for the birth of his daughter via text. He seems to only be carefully cordial with me anymore, and I fear our friendship is dissolving. I have an inkling of an idea about why this is the case; he’s upset I’ve dared to be with you, since he knows, deep down, I know about how he feels._

_I can’t stand the idea of losing John’s friendship._

_All of this reminded me about our last conversation, about how you seemed convinced John couldn’t possibly have feelings for you. I can only assume you haven’t made any overtures, if Mary’s photos and text messages are anything to go by._

_Since you value facts and evidence so highly, I’ve forwarded one particular e-mail chain John and I exchanged over the course of your ‘Great Hiatus,’ as the press called it. I've removed the unrelated bits._

_I welcome you to make your own deductions._

_Yours truly,_

_James_

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

 

_**On July 15, 2012, at 9:34 PM, James Sholto <jsholto@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_You knew him best, it seems, and I would trust you over the press in a heartbeat: how could Sherlock have possibly faked all that? As I well know, the press are always nasty, unrelenting, and damning._

_He really seems like he was an incredible man. I could never tell someone’s profession just by looking at their shoes, unless they were a professional bowler and happened to really like wearing their bowling shoes everywhere._

_-J.S._

_**On July 16, 2012, at 7:23 AM, John Watson <jsholto@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_He was incredible. I wish you could’ve met him. He made life exciting, gave it more meaning than I ever thought it could have._

_Something's really missing in my life now, without him. I don’t know how I could possibly ever replace him. I won’t, and I can’t. I don’t know what I'll do without him._

_-John_

_**On July 16, 2012, at 7:23 AM, James Sholto <jsholto@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_You’re in shock. It’s still a huge shock, it will pass._

_I’m so sorry._

_If you ever need me, you know I’m always here._

_-J.S._

_**On July 16, 2012, at 11:51 AM, John Watson < johnhwatson@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_Thanks, mate. I’m really glad you’re back in town._

_I wish I would have shown him that I cared. I mean, I did, of course. But really show him. I hate the idea of him having gone thinking he wasn’t cared for._

_-John_

_**On July 17, 2012, at 4:10 AM, James Sholto < jsholto@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_I’m sure he knew you cared for him. He was clearly in a bad way, and it had nothing to do with you. He was lucky to have the constancy of your friendship in his life._

_-J.S._

_**On July 17, 2012, at 2:03 PM, John Watson < johnhwatson@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_No, I’m a bloody idiot, James. How could I have wasted so much time? I could've told him._

_-John_

_**On July 18, 2012, at 8:30 PM, James Sholto < jsholto@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_You're certainly not. Sometimes, it's unspoken. Sometimes you don't need to say the words._

_-J.S._

_**On July 18, 2012, at 11:23 PM, John Watson < johnhwatson@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_You don't understand, James._

_He didn't know._

_-John_

_**On July 20, 2012, at 5:44 am, James Sholto < jsholto@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_I'm sorry, John._

_-J.S._

_**On July 23, 2012, at 1:11 am, John Watson < johnhwatson@gmail.com> wrote:** _

_Me too._

_-John_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know there's not been much Sherlock and John interaction. The next chapters will have far more. Thanks for sticking with me!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's anyone still out there (echo echo), thanks for sticking around. 
> 
> This fic was written pre-S4, so it's all-around non-S4 compliant.

After reading the forwarded e-mails, Sherlock is absolutely clueless.

What hadn’t he known? He knows John cares about him—they’re, according to John, “best friends.” Which, naturally, involves a heightened level of concern for each other’s well being.

Sherlock may not have known his faked death would have affected John so much, hadn’t anticipated that it would’ve made him so angry, hurt him. But what hadn’t Sherlock known before he’d made his so-called return to the world of the living?

Sherlock hates all the complexities of human relationships and emotions. Why is it the one thing that he can’t seem to fully understand?

\--

In the wee morning hours of a quiet Saturday on Baker Street, Sherlock’s mobile rings. The sound piercing through the silence startles Sherlock awake.

A tome on Cornish folklore is propped on his stomach, so he carelessly shoves it to the floor before lunging for his mobile on the coffee table, nearly dropping it after reading the name on the caller ID.

“John,” Sherlock answers, sounding admirably composed.

“Hey.”  Just hearing his voice is a comfort. Sherlock hasn’t seen him for what’s been a few months. “Sorry I’m calling so late. You weren’t sleeping, were you?”

Sherlock balks at the notion. “No.”

“’Course,” John says, a smile in his voice.

Sherlock switches the mobile to his other ear and asks, softly, “How are you?”

“I’m all right, yeah.” A heavy sigh. “Tired.”

“Rosie?”

“Yep. She’s a bit of a screaming demon these days. But a cute one.”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh and they revert to silence.

On John’s end, Sherlock can hear the clinking of a glass onto a tabletop.

“It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” John says quietly.

“Two and a half months,” Sherlock states, feeling a sudden pang of longing.

“Ah, wow, yeah. I’m sorry I’ve not stopped by more often. Or texted. ...Or called. Rosie—“

“Please, John,” Sherlock interjects. “I’m well aware you’ve more important things to attend to. It’s perfectly fine.”

Pause. John’s taking a sip. Glass clink. “I’d really like to see you.”

Sherlock blinks. John is not usually so forthright. “That sentiment is quite mutual.”

John lets out a soft, almost sad-sounding _ha_ at that.  “Well, good. Because the reason why I called is to ask you to dinner next Saturday. I mean—at my place. With James. The three of us, that is. He’s already agreed.”

Surely, Sherlock had misheard him. “With _James_?”

“Yeah, James,” John says with a bit of bite. “Sholto. Have you deleted him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says carefully. “Why would I?”

“God only knows,” John murmurs.

Sherlock hasn’t the faintest idea what to say. It’s a simple response, certainly: it’s a yes or a no. But Sherlock’s head is spinning: why James, why now, _why_?

“Mary and Janine are off to a short holiday in Ireland next weekend,” John is saying. “Janine’s going to visit her mum and Mary’s tagging along. I’ll make something nice for us. You like chicken vindaloo, don’t you?”

“…I do.”

“Thought so,” John says triumphantly. “So you’ll be there? Say, 8:00?”

“I will be,” Sherlock agrees, and regrets the promise the very moment the words leave his mouth.

\--

Sherlock arrives at the Watson household a half hour late, having dithered about what to wear for far too long. When John opens the door, Sherlock catches a whiff of curry and is quickly reminded how hungry he is. He hadn’t eaten all day--too distracted.

John doesn't look particularly pleased to see him, holding the door half-open, expression sour.

“Wasn’t sure if you were still coming,” he says.

“My apologies,” Sherlock says. “Traffic.”

If John sees through the lie, he doesn’t bother to fight it. He just opens the door wider.

Sherlock moves into the foyer, then feels a light pressure on his shoulders: John’s hands. “I’ll take your coat.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, sliding out of a sleeve, then removing the coat entirely for John to take.

John starts up the stairs with the coat. “Help yourself to a drink in the kitchen,” he calls over his shoulder.

Once John’s out of sight, Sherlock makes his way into the sitting room, steeling himself.

He finds James lounging on a gaudy purple and yellow chintz sofa, an unfortunate product of Mary’s taste, drinking what appears to be whiskey. His second (or third?) glass since he’s arrived, likely at eight o’clock on the dot.

James springs up off the sofa immediately once he catches sight of Sherlock, as if Sherlock’s the headmaster and he, the obedient schoolboy.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“James,” Sherlock greets stiltedly, and seats himself in the armchair by the sofa.

James sits back down, legs opened wide, glass propped on a knee, and unabashedly sweeps his gaze down Sherlock’s body. “You’re looking very well.”

Sherlock heaves out an exasperated breath and looks over toward the door, anxious for John’s return. “Yes, thank you.”

James slides to the other end of the sofa, closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock prepares for the inevitable, horrible conversation.

“Sherlock, please don’t make tonight difficult.”

Sherlock looks at him with affront. “ _Difficult?_ ”

“I know you’re not happy with how we ended things,” James continues, glancing over toward the empty doorway apprehensively. “But you must know I was right. Did you read the e-mails?”

“What e-mails?” John asks suddenly, gliding into the sitting room, eyebrow cocked up.

“James sent me some articles related to a case in Oxfordshire,” Sherlock lies with natural ease. “He was wondering what I made of it all.”

“Yeah? What’s it about?” John asks, then eyes the sidetable beside Sherlock. “You didn’t get a drink. Let me get you something.”

“Have you any gin?”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Yes, please.”

As John leaves to prepare the drink, Sherlock takes the opportunity to shoot James a baleful look. James seems unmoved by his ire.

John returns with the drink and hands it over to Sherlock.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, his fingers brushing John’s as he takes the drink. Sherlock freezes at the touch, and John just stares at him.

John takes a step back and clears his throat.

“Um. Go on, then,” John says.

Sherlock pulls himself together. “Yes, well, I was about to tell James there wasn’t enough evidence published to make a conclusive determination.” He smiles tightly at James. “And since he offered his opinion on who he thought the culprit was, I was going to say that he shouldn’t theorise _when he doesn’t have all the facts_ ,” Sherlock finishes pointedly.

James shakes his head in disappointment.

“That’s one of his maxims,” John tells James. “How does the whole thing go? ‘Never theorise before you have all the data,’” John parrots in a decidedly poor imitation of Sherlock. “If you do, you’ll spin facts to fit theories instead of theories to fit facts. Or something.”

Sherlock is impressed. “Very good, John. You’ve been paying attention.”

“I do actually listen when you speak sometimes.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “And I’ve only heard you say it thousands of times.”

“Thousands?” Sherlock asks, amused.

John quirks a smile. “Maybe hundreds.” John considers Sherlock for a moment. “And I do miss it.”

Sherlock matches John’s smile. “Do you?”

John’s smile grows sunnier. “Yeah, I really do.”

Sherlock feels irritated, suddenly. “If I saw you more often then I would be more than glad to talk at you.” Sherlock doesn’t mean for it to come out so petulant, but it inevitably does.

John’s smile dissipates, a look of guilt supplanting it.

The oven dings, thankfully, and Sherlock looks eagerly toward the kitchen.

“Time to eat,” James proclaims.

\--

“John, this is divine,” James breaks the unbearable silence that had fallen since the vindaloo was served. “I had no idea you could cook.”

“Thanks,” John says, looking chuffed. “Yeah, I’ve always liked to cook. It’s a good stress-reliever.” John pops his last piece of chicken into his mouth and swallows. “Mary hates cooking, anyway, so someone’s got to do it.”

Without any detectable malice, James says, “Mary certainly lucked out, didn’t she?” John blanches while Sherlock downs the rest of his drink. “How _is_ Mary?”

“Fine,” John says shortly, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.

“And Rosie?”

John's face softens. “Sleeping right now. She’s fit as a fiddle.”

“Good to hear.”

Conversation dies after this, and Sherlock begins to get fidgety.

“Shall we move back to the sitting room?” John asks after he’s cleared their plates.

They move to the sitting room, Sherlock back in the armchair, and James and John on the sofa, a swath of space in between them. Sherlock feels a nice buzz after having more drinks than he’d intended to have; perhaps that will make the evening a touch more tolerable.

John looks over at James, then Sherlock, and sniffs decisively.

“Right, so,” John starts, looking grim. “I have some news.”

Sherlock and James watch him, rapt.

“I’m going to ask Mary for a divorce.”

Sherlock’s mouth may or may not have fallen open at the news. He’d like to think not.

“Oh, no,” James is saying while Sherlock’s mind is reeling. “I'm sorry, John.”

This is not something Sherlock had foreseen. He’d thought John and Mary were perfectly happy together with their perfect family--Mary’s former profession aside. John never--not once--made any indication to the contrary.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” John says. “It’s my decision.”

James looks at Sherlock meaningfully, jerks his head in John’s direction as if to say: _say something to him_.

Sherlock clears his throat. “My...condolences, John,” he offers, feeling awkward, then looks at James: _was that all right_?

James gives him a look that screams: _not in the least._

“Yeah, thanks. I guess,”  John says, seemingly unbothered by any tactlessness, to the floor.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I completely understand,” James says. “But did something happen that made up your mind?”

John nods sagely. “She’s not who I thought she was when I met her,” he says. “She’s...not the same person.” John looks over at Sherlock and they exchange a knowing look. “And I can’t work through it, pretend it’s okay. I mean, I wanted to go on. I really, really wanted it to work, for Rosie’s sake. But I can't do it. I just can't.”

James considers John with deep, etched concern. Sherlock pretends to find his empty glass fascinating, picking it up and examining it under the lamplight.

“Yes, I’ve heard that happens sometimes,” James says. “You marry someone, and suddenly they become completely different. It’s like the true self was dormant.”

Sherlock grimaces.

John snorts. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it on the nose.”

“I’m sorry, John,” James says, looking at John’s empty glass. “Shall I pour you some more whiskey?”

John snorts. “Yeah, thanks, that’d be great. 'Keep the spirits up by pouring the spirits down, right?'"

James smiles awkwardly. “Sherlock?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock says quietly.

James pours John, then himself, more whiskey, then sits back down on the sofa beside John.

“John, it should go without saying, but you can always come to me if you ever need anything. A place to stay or anything else.”

John smiles sadly into his drink. “Thanks, James. Really appreciate that.” He looks between Sherlock and James. “And I appreciate you two coming tonight. I just needed to--I don't know. Tell someone. I've been thinking about this for awhile. Since Rosie was born, really. Feels good to have made the decision, after all this time. Now I can...move on.”

“Yes, of course,” James says.

“But I don’t want to talk about it all night.” John blows out a breath. “Tell me about you two.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, wishing suddenly he were anywhere else.

“I’m sorry?” James asks with an innocent air.

“You two,” John reiterates flatly. He waves a hand. “You know.”

Sherlock opens his eyes to find James giving him a look of absolute desperation, searching for a lifeline. Sherlock is the very last person on Earth to give it to him.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” James says.

“I’m not a bloody idiot,” John says, giving James a hard look. Sherlock swallows.

“Right. Well. Quite frankly, John,” James says, sitting up straight. “There is no ‘us two.’”

John raises a sardonic brow at him. “No?”

“No,” James affirms.

John seems to be mulling this over, considering James. Sherlock feels strangely invisible (not something he’s used to).

James takes a deep breath. “There never really _was_.”

John shakes his head, confused.

“...It meant nothing,” James elucidates, sounding almost wistful. “Was only a bit of fun, you must know.”

“James, don’t--” Sherlock starts.

“--Sherlock--”

“ _Please_ , don’t,” Sherlock interjects, vibrating with a sudden nervous energy.

“It meant _nothing_ , John, you need to know that,” James repeats hurriedly, trying to preclude Sherlock jumping in and stopping him. “Especially to Sherlock. I was, in essence, a sub--”

“Shut _up_ , James!”  Sherlock grits out, jumping up out of the armchair, adrenalin pulsing, and heading up the stairs to get his coat. After grabbing his coat and wrestling it on, he heads downstairs, for the door.

“Sherlock, wait!” James calls out. Sherlock ignores him, flinging opening the door and bounding down the pavement.

“Sherlock, please stop!”

Sherlock stops, closes his eyes, and whirls round to find James sprinting after him. James reaches out and places a gentle hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Don't go.”

Sherlock wrenches his arm back, away from James, furious.

James is undeterred and lowers his voice to say: “I’m not sorry. I was only trying to help you. Do you want to live your life in regret?”

"I think my only lifetime regret will be coming tonight,” Sherlock spits out.

“He’s leaving her. If now isn't the time to tell him how you feel, when is? After he’s found someone else?”

Sherlock knows James is right. It’s optimal timing, this. But Sherlock hasn’t the courage nor confidence to broach the subject, and deeply fears John’s rejection--most of all, he fears the loss of his friendship, his presence in his life. How is he meant to know for certain how John feels about him? All he had was James’s--a man who had loved John, and who John may or may not have loved back--word; all he had were vaguely worded e-mails that were essentially meaningless to him. Nothing conclusive.

Over James’s shoulder, Sherlock sees John making his way toward them, and Sherlock’s heart is pounding in his ears.

James catches Sherlock’s eye. “Tell him. Take the chance. You have it, in spades. I didn’t and lost my chance--though I don’t know if anything would have come of it.” James gives him a plaintive smile.    

Sherlock averts his eyes, looks to the pavement.

“Jesus,” John says when he’s in an earshot. Sherlock looks up to find him standing beside James. “This is probably the most excitement the neighbourhood’s had. Ever,” When no one responds, he adds, “Really though, what the hell is going on?”

James looks at his watch with exaggerated panache. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to get back. Need to check on Nemain, she's been sick the past few days. Thank you for the lovely evening, John.”

John blinks, caught off-guard. “Oh, okay. Yeah, ‘course. I appreciate you coming out here. You’re okay getting home? Don’t need a ride?”

“No, no. But thank you.” James rests a hand on John’s shoulder and says, “Call me if you need anything.” John gives him a grateful nod. James glances at Sherlock. “Good bye, Sherlock,” James says, before heading back toward John’s flat. When he’s out of John’s sight--behind him--he gestures at John and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

John places a hand on Sherlock’s arm, bringing Sherlock’s attention back to him. “You all right?”

Sherlock stares down at John’s hand. “What did you mean when you said ‘I didn't know?’” Sherlock looks up. “What didn't I know?”

John purses his lips. “I'm not following.”

“You told James in an e-mail--when I was dead--that I didn’t know something. What?”

John removes his hand, and Sherlock feels bereft, wishes for its return, its warmth.

John suddenly looks intense. “He sent you that? Why did he send you that?”

“Does it matter?”

John looks away and huffs out a wry laugh. “That _bastard_.”

“Well?”

“There were things I didn’t say to you that I wished I had said.” He spreads his palms. “That’s all.”

“I’m here,” Sherlock says. “Say it to me now.”

For a moment, John looks at Sherlock with an expression not unlike fear. He then takes a careful step back. “Let’s head back inside.”

Sherlock growls a frustrated, “ _John_.”

“Not here, Sherlock,” John says firmly, loudly. He lowers his voice to add, softer, “We’re not doing this here,” then heads purposefully back down the street and into his flat.

Sherlock follows John, heart thrumming.

Inside, he finds John sitting on the sofa, head in his hands. “Christ.”

“Nope, just me.”

John doesn’t seem to find this funny. “You know, I was a bit--I guess upset. When I realised you and James were--” he breaks off. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It does to me.”

Sherlock blinks, not sure how to digest this information. “I was, admittedly, unaware of your...history with him, and I apologise if I violated some sort of unspoken Code.”

John barks out a surprised laugh. “ _Code_? Seriously?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“You've got it all wrong.”

“Do I? Then enlighten me,” Sherlock says sharply.

“I didn't know you did that. Date.”

“It was far from dating--”

“Right, okay,” John cuts in. “I didn't know you were interested in. Well.”

“Sex?” Sherlock supplies.

John rubs the back of his neck and can't seem to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah.”

“I am human, you know.”

“Would’ve fooled me,” John says, but it’s teasing.

Sherlock still pouts. “I wasn't exactly planning on it. It just sort of happened.”

John appraises Sherlock. “You’re not seeing each other anymore.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

Sherlock takes a seat on the sofa, on the end opposite John, a no man’s land of space between them. “James deserves better. More specifically, he deserves someone who is fully invested.”

“When he said it didn't mean anything, it really didn't mean anything, did it. For you.”

“Yes.”

“But for him?”

“I assume he would have been fine continuing on as we were, to some extent, but I can't say there were any romantic undertones to our various flings.”

John’s mouth is quirked up, and he seems..amused. ”I see.”

“He was in love with you.”

These few words kill John’s amusement. “ _What_?”

“He told me.”

John opens his mouth, closes it, an impressive imitation of a fish.  “...He didn’t say a word to me about it.”

“You didn’t reciprocate his feelings,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock can tell John is choosing his next few words carefully. “I like James. He’s a stand-up bloke; a good friend.” A hesitation. “He’s not, uh, bad to look at either. It just wasn’t the right time.”

Sherlock gives him a sidelong look. “Will there be a right time?”

John grimaces. “No.”

“You could have just said that.”

“Yeah, I know,” John concedes. “Want anything else to drink?”

“I think I’ve had enough.”

John makes a considering noise. “Well, I definitely haven’t.” He fixes himself a drink, returns to the sofa, then chugs it down in one go.

Sherlock watches John’s throat as he downs the drink. “John, you know, once everything with you and Mary is settled, you are more than welcome to come back to 221b. There will always be room for you. And Rosie.”

John finishes his drink and slams it atop the coffee table. “Thanks. I appreciate that. But I don’t think I can.”

Sherlock balks. “Why not?”

“I just need some time alone.”

Sherlock is extraordinarily disappointed, but he tries not to let it show.

He feels his mobile vibrate.

“Of course,” he says distractedly, pulling out his mobile. He finds two texts from James.

**I do hope you’ve said something.**

**He’s completely unaware of how you feel. He’s not going to say anything. You need to be the one to do it. Remember the e-mails.**

Sherlock stares helplessly at the screen.

“Something interesting?” John asks brusquely. Sherlock looks up to find John watching him over the rim of his glass, which had miraculously been re-filled to the brim.

“John,” Sherlock begins, and can’t for the life of him think of how to finish.

“Sherlock.”

They sit in silence, watching each other, for a while.

Sherlock decides that if he can’t find the words, he’ll need to show John how he feels. He stands up, feeling awkward, then sits back down so he’s seated closer to John on the sofa.

John blinks at him, places down his drink without looking where he’s putting it and misses the sidetable, causing the drink to spill on the rug. John, however, doesn’t bat an eyelash at the mishap, has his undivided attention on Sherlock.

John drapes his arm across the top of the sofa, behind Sherlock, and Sherlock leans back into it.

“Bit close, for us,” John says, quiet.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.

They remain that way. Sherlock can’t look John in the eye, but he can feel John’s eyes on him.

“Not good?” Sherlock adds, after a while.

“Not close enough.”

Now Sherlock snaps his attention to John, his heart feeling like it’s about to burst out of his chest. John is watching him with hooded eyes, an intoxicating lust and affection imbued in them. Surely, he’s not misreading John. Surely, this is real.

Could James have possibly been right?

John’s eyes drift to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock can't stop himself, he leans in--

And then John’s mobile rings.

John glares at his mobile like it’s offended his mother, then breathes out resignedly, removes his arm from the top of the sofa, placing his hand on Sherlock’s thigh ostensibly as leverage to reach over Sherlock’s lap to pick up the mobile from the coffee table. He looks down at the screen warily.

“Of course,” John murmurs, then presses the Accept button.

“Hey,” he answers, looking intently at Sherlock, squeezing his thigh, almost reassuringly. Sherlock watches his lips as they move: “...Yeah, yeah, I’m all right...she’s great, sleeping right now...oh, really? oh no. That’s shite, sorry to hear that...did you take--okay, good...Oh.” John closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Oh, okay, yeah sure, sure…tonight?” John grimaces. “’Round when? Yeah, I’ll pick you up...text me the flight details...me too, see you. Okay, bye.” He hangs up, and puts the mobile to the side.

John buries his face in his hands and says into them, voice muffled, “Mary got sick so she’s heading back home early.” He picks up his head. “She’ll be back in London in a few hours.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurts, not meaning to say it, not sure why he said it.

“Yeah, me too,” John says. He stands up, sniffs, smooths down his shirt. Sherlock stares at his arse. John whips around, and Sherlock looks up quickly, fixes his face into an unreadable mask.

John is too clever to be deceived. “God. This is real.”

Sherlock raises an inquisitive brow: _Can you elaborate?_

“This--whatever _this_ is--is real. Between you and me. I’m not just imagining things. Please, Sherlock, tell me I’m not fucking imagining things.”

Sherlock stands up. John takes a small step back. “Quite honestly, this is as real as it’s ever going to get with me, John.”  Sherlock has, for most of his life, obscured and repressed and misled. But, with John, more than anyone else he’s ever met, he wants to bare all of himself: his true self.

John shakes his head. “This is not what I planned.”

“You’re asking Mary for a divorce,” Sherlock reminds him, remembering James imploring Sherlock that this was perfect timing, that if not now, when?

“And now she’s coming home. Tonight. I didn’t plan on tonight. And then _this--this_ .” John takes a moment to goggle at Sherlock. As if John doesn’t believe that Sherlock is here, present, in his sitting room at this very moment, having this discussion. “I hoped. I really fucking hoped that this was going to happen. But long after Mary--after the divorce was over and done with. _Christ_. I thought--well, I thought I needed time. I thought I needed space. But now--” John looks at a loss.

“I’ll wait,” Sherlock says immediately. “Whatever you need to do--however much time you need. I’ll wait.”

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t waited long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Yes, the title is inspired by ["Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight)" ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wCK6INQcHs) by ABBA.


End file.
